


On the Side of the Angels

by Mizmak



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, Happy Ending, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:29:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26839756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizmak/pseuds/Mizmak
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley revisit the bandstand, and their conversation there...and Aziraphale realizes what he truly wants Crowley to forgive.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 100





	On the Side of the Angels

_“I am a great deal holier than thou. That’s the whole point._ ”

Aziraphale left Crowley passed out on his bookshop sofa. He stumbled upstairs to the small flat there, and for the first time in a long time, he fell into the bed to lose himself in sleep after the longest two days of his eternal life.

When he woke a few hours later, an hour yet until dawn, images and thoughts and words floated through the darkness of his mind. None of them were ones he wanted to dwell upon. 

He rose and crossed to the window to look out on the quiet street below. _The world is still there…still safe. Why does one moment out of the past few days haunt me more than all the rest?_

When he went downstairs, Aziraphale noted the empty sofa—but then he went to the front window of the bookshop and saw the Bentley where Crowley had left it the night before. 

_Where had he gone?_

Aziraphale opened the door and stood on the stoop. He could sense Crowley’s whereabouts anywhere on Earth, and he reached out with his mind, searching for him in the darkness. 

And when he found the place, he closed his eyes and sighed deeply. Of course it had to be _there_. Where he didn’t want to go. 

Aziraphale walked down to the nearest taxi stand, and went there just the same.

The dim morning light tried to reach through a heavy bank of clouds which blanketed the city of London in gray. Aziraphale walked slowly along the wide path leading to the bandstand in Battersea Park, gazing ahead to the place where he had spoken so many untruths.

He stopped briefly to turn his gaze up to the heavens which refused to shine on him today. “I wish that I could take it all back,” he said aloud in the faint hope that Someone still listened to the only angel on Earth. 

There was no answer.

Aziraphale walked on. He could see the solitary figure sitting on the bandstand steps, clad all in black. Had he not seen Crowley smile since that terrible conversation? Had they not saved each other from holy and unholy retribution? Had he not heard Crowley laugh, and walk freely and easily by his side?

All those things had happened, and yet—there was ease in long-held friendship, something one naturally fell back on in times of great distress, and in times of unbridled joy—and yet Aziraphale wondered why the world inside his soul felt as gray as the world around him.

“Hello, Angel.”

Crowley sat on the top step, knees bent, clasping his legs to his chest.

Aziraphale slowly walked up and sat beside him, close, but not too close. Though dawn had arrived, the heavy clouds barely allowed light through, and very little warmth. “Aren’t you cold, my dear?”

“A bit.” Crowley rested his chin on top of his bent knees. “Well, all right, more than a bit.”

“Did you walk all the way here?” Crowley rarely took public transit, or even a taxi, not when he could drive.

“Felt like taking a long walk.”

“In the dark.”

“Yep.”

“And the cold.” Aziraphale sighed as he saw a shiver pass through Crowley’s thin frame. “My dear fellow, you are an idiot.” Then he unfurled his wings, uncaring whether any humans might turn up for an early jog. He turned sideways and shifted closer to Crowley, and wrapped his wings around him, infusing them with warmth.

He wrapped his arms around Crowley as well.

Crowley loosened his hold on his knees so he could wrap round Aziraphale, and he lowered his head onto Aziraphale’s chest. “Thanks.”

They stayed in this cocooned embrace until the shivers ceased, until the clouds above began to part, until warming sunlight finally reached through.

Aziraphale released his hold and furled his wings out of sight. A few lone runners were now in the park, though far from the bandstand yet. 

Crowley stretched his arms before wrapping them around his knees once more. “That sunlight feels good.”

“Indeed.” Aziraphale did not move away. He needed to be close. “Especially as we believed, such a short time ago, that we might never see it again.”

Crowley stared straight ahead, not looking at him. “There are other stars,” he said softly.

So that was clearly his cue, Aziraphale thought, a perfect start to the conversation he didn’t want to have, but was going to have all the same. “Was Alpha Centauri one of yours?”

Crowley shook his head. “No.”

Aziraphale placed a hand on his shoulder. “Will you forgive me?”

“For not running away to the stars? ‘course not—that was a ridiculous idea.”

Yes, he had called it that. But he knew it hadn’t been ridiculous in Crowley’s view. “It was a desperate idea. You had nowhere else to go, while I still believed that Heaven was on my side. And it wasn’t ridiculous that you wanted me with you. I should have been beholden to you.”

“Well…possibly.” Crowley looked at him, lips twitching into a soft smile. “And then you should have turned down the offer anyway.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale moved his hand from Crowley’s shoulder to slide it around his back, pulling him in closer, as close as he could get. “Then will you forgive me for saying we weren’t friends?” He shuddered at the memory of those horrid words. “I’m afraid that came all too naturally, after six thousand years of pretending not to even know you. It was ingrained from the beginning—not that I couldn’t like you, mind, because I did like you from the beginning—but that Heaven could never find out the truth.”

Crowley reached to take Aziraphale’s free hand in his own. “You don’t need forgiving for that, either. I’d been ignoring those words for six thousand years.” He placed their joined hands briefly against Aziraphale’s chest. “Knew they didn’t come from your heart.”

“No.” Aziraphale trembled at the touch. “They never did.” And yet he needed Crowley’s forgiveness, somehow, for _something_ …he knew there was a wrong he had committed, words he had spoken that day which needed absolution. His dear friend had come to this place for a reason, and Aziraphale wasn’t going to leave here without easing Crowley’s mind. 

As the sun’s rays continued to break through the clouds to warm the day, Aziraphale went over that most hated conversation again, knowing that he, too, needed to ease his own mind. What other lie had he told? What other hurt had he caused…he thought about Crowley’s reactions to his words. When he refused to run away, when he lied about their friendship, Crowley had merely grunted, even been flippant about having a nice doomsday—but he had not been angry then, because he knew Aziraphale had spoken a lie.

And then it came back to him, the one moment when Crowley had been the most indignant.

_I’m the nice one…_

_…Heaven will not have blood on its hands._

_…I am a great deal holier than thou._

The truth jolted through him, shaking him to the core. Which one of them had tried to be kind to the humans when he could manage to do so, despite being deemed unforgiveable? Which of them had been more disheartened at wanton cruelty, while the other passed off the horrors with the hollow excuse of an ineffable plan? Who had insisted on saving the world, knowing Hell would never forgive, while the other had resisted—joining in reluctantly, fearfully?

_Oh, no blood on your hands?_

_…I don’t even know why I’m still talking to you._

… _Enough. I’m leaving._

Aziraphale let his arm drop lower, around Crowley’s waist, and tightened his hold. “Forgive me, my dear. I have never been holier than thou.”

“You are what you are,” Crowley said. “I can’t blame you for that.” He brought his free hand up to brush his long fingers through Aziraphale’s hair with the gentlest affection. “You’re on the side of the angels.”

"Yes, precisely. It is in my nature to be kind, to love all creatures, to follow God’s plan wherever it leads. It was easy.” There was no inner struggle there for an angel. “I’ll admit that whenever I was with you—when I shouldn’t have been, and whenever I indulged in the Arrangement, when I knew better—those times were harder. Yet I feared more for your safety than my own—most of the time, anyway—because Heaven only sent rude notes. I didn’t have to fight against Hell to be what I was, or even what I wished to be—your friend. But _you_ did.”

“Doesn’t mean you did anything wrong, Angel.”

“Perhaps, but don’t you see that what I said to you that day was wrong? Every time you performed a miracle or a blessing in my stead, every time we met to idle away the hours together, whenever you saved me from destruction, and whenever you looked at the horrors people inflicted on each other and walked away without choosing to add to their pain—each of those moments was a defiance of Hell’s hold on you. It could never have been easy. I should not have claimed to be holier—not when you were shackled by the darkest forces in all Creation, and yet you kept striving to stand free in the light.”

Crowley still held his hand. “That’s an exaggeration. I only did what suited my own desires.” He brought it to his lips and kissed Aziraphale’s fingertips. “And even if you want to raise me higher, I’m still a demon.”

He wished Crowley would not so casually downplay his struggles against his nature, nor the sacrifices he’d been willing to make in the name of friendship. “No, you aren’t.”

“Sorry?” Crowley raised an eyebrow.

“A _demon_ is only that, and nothing more—while a fallen _angel_ is still an angel at heart.” He freed his hand from Crowley’s grasp to take hold of the sunglasses, which he carefully removed. “Have I ever told you that I think your eyes have a heavenly golden light to them?”

Crowley shook his head. “Too poetic for me.”

Aziraphale smiled. “I won’t apologize for being too poetic.” He leaned in to kiss Crowley’s forehead. “I _do_ apologize for being so damnably self-righteous that day.”

“Ah. That felt nice.”

“Hm? Oh, yes, it did.” Aziraphale kissed his cheek. “So did that.”

“Much better than poetic words.” Crowley returned the kiss. “And I still don’t think you need forgiving, though yeah, it did tick me off—but only for a moment.”

“You do tend to move on from unkindness rather quickly, I must say. Humor me, though, will you?” He raised his eyebrows. “Please?”

“Fine.” Crowley brushed his fingers along his cheek. “I forgive you.”

Of course he did. He always would, of that Aziraphale felt certain, though he hoped to never give him the opportunity again. “Thank you." He relaxed into their embrace. 

“I lied to you once,” Crowley said out of the blue. 

“Oh, did you? When was that?”

“1862.”

“Ah.” Another conversation he preferred to forget. “What was it you said?”

“I said that I didn’t need you.”

“Well, that was clearly untrue.” He had known it then, but had been too upset to do anything about it, for a rather long time. “We do need each other—I believe that we always have. I don’t believe we work well at all when we’re apart.”

“No, we don’t.” 

Aziraphale suddenly felt lighter and freer inside than he ever had before. He felt as if the too-long struggle to hold onto the only relationship which meant the world to him had finally come to an end, here in this unlikely place. The struggle ended, for they had won. Even the clouds drifted away now, and the sun bathed them in a glow that seemed—almost—divine. 

The last vestiges of Heaven’s hold upon him drifted away as well, gone with the morning mist that rose from the grass as the sunlight warmed it. 

The discord from days past which this place had retained fell away, banished by words of contrition, vanquished by words of absolution. He felt so free. Aziraphale looked into those shining, golden eyes. “Crowley, my dear, I love you.”

"Hm. I rather thought you might.” Crowley touched his fingertips to Aziraphale’s lips. “I’m pretty sure I fell in love with you six thousand years ago.” He smiled. “More or less.”

“That long?” Aziraphale sighed. “I feel distinctly remiss—I do wish I had noticed sooner.”

“Doesn’t matter. Got there eventually. I knew you liked to take your time.” Crowley took his fingers from Aziraphale’s lips. “Is that a touch you want more of, Angel?”

“It is.”

Crowley kissed him.

It was a soft, warm touch, a light and gentle caress which somehow nearly overwhelmed Aziraphale. Nothing had ever prepared him to feel submerged in another person’s soul, or to be deluged by love. When he rose to the surface again, the waves lingered behind, rippling through him in a torrent of affection. 

And there was more than love, for there was also freedom. He felt absolutely free when he touched Crowley’s heart and soul, a freedom to be what he wished to be—an angel who wasn’t perfect. 

He dove into the flood once more, and surprised Crowley with a passionate kiss, one filled with all the fierceness of love denied—for he wanted to let Heaven know that he loved Crowley with reverent devotion—for he was an angel who could love Heaven’s enemy as an equal. He was on the side of the angels…fallen angels…and he loved a fallen angel, one who was holier than any of those high above whom he had chosen to leave behind forever.

And so he found a passion in this touch, and a silent poetry, and it overflowed from his soul, and it could never end, and it had to end, but it would begin again, and there would be no ending to love.

Aziraphale pulled away, and smiled at the look of astonishment on Crowley’s face. “Sorry,” he said. “I got carried away.”

Crowley gaped at him, momentarily lost for words, and then he shook his head, smiled, and said, “Oh, Angel—don’t let me stop you.”

So he kissed him again, and he fell in love all over again, and the world disappeared for a while. The only thing that kept him from staying in that space where time no longer mattered was a faint and rather annoying rumble in his abdomen. 

Oh, honestly. He was _hungry_.

Well, Aziraphale thought with a slight pang, even the depths of love and the exaltation of his poetic feelings had to make way for a good meal now and then. 

He stopped kissing Crowley, who looked a little sad at that, but there was fondness there, too. “Probably ought to get moving, huh?”

Aziraphale nodded.

Crowley shifted out of the embrace to stretch his arms. “Come on, then, let’s take a walk.” He got to his feet, and held out a hand to help Aziraphale up. “What did you do with my sunglasses?”

“Oh, sorry.” He handed them over. 

Crowley put them back on, which was a pity, to have to cover those golden eyes. 

They stepped down from the bandstand, and headed off down the path. “Are we walking all the way back?” Aziraphale asked. “It must be three miles or more.”

Crowley reached out to hold his hand. “Nah. Why don’t we stroll down to the park café for a quick breakfast. You must be peckish by now. We can take a cab home from there.”

“Home?” 

“The bookshop.” Crowley paused to look at him, quirking one eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Always, my dear.” Aziraphale squeezed his hand. “Though it doesn’t matter where we go or where we live, does it? We’re together—so we are already home.”

“Good.” Crowley pulled him close for a brief hug. “I’m home.” 

They walked on through the park, holding hands, while the birds sang and the sun shone down, and they walked on towards an ordinary day of meals and conversations, of a stroll in St. James’s Park, an ordinary day of lounging on the sofa over glasses of wine in the back of a closed bookshop…and yet, for the first time, on that extraordinary day—they walked freely in love together.

Forever.


End file.
